by Felix Baron
The Secret Sex Lives of Wanda Mitty
Felix Baron
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
More from Mischief
About Mischief
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Commuting by subway can be inspirational. When you drive, you get to see all sorts of interesting people, but just quick glimpses, in passing. On the subway you get to study them, sometimes up close, and your mind is free to wander. Yes, Wanda had been known to pass her stop a few times but that’s better than rear-ending a bus because you’re daydreaming. She knew that from bitter experience.
A businessman got up. Wanda slipped into his spot, next to a little sparrow of a woman whose skinny lap was covered by an enormous macramé bag full of knitting. Her long wooden needles were click-clacking away at a furious speed, as if the only way to prevent some impending disaster was to finish the project she was working on before she got to her station.
The train hissed to a stop. The doors opened. What looked like a full basketball team, no uniforms but carrying bags of balls, crushed its way in. Just about the biggest man that Wanda had ever been so close to ended up standing with his back directly in front of her, blocking her view of the rest of the car.
That was OK. He was black and so tall that his muscular rump was higher than her head. When she inhaled, she sucked in his musk. His incredibly baggy shorts brushed his knees. It could be that he had to wear them like that to contain an enormous dangling length. Could be.
Subways are so inspirational.
Wanda was inspired.
Seated behind that wall of flesh, she was pretty well invisible.
She knew she shouldn’t, but Wanda fantasised.
There was no hair on the paler skin at the backs of his knees. If she were to lift a hand out of her lap and stroke that skin with her knuckles, it’d be hard and smooth and warm. How would he react to her touch? A handsome young giant like him would be used to being fondled by older women. He’d most likely chosen to stand there in front of her because, out of all the women and girls in the carriage, she was the one he’d chosen to be surreptitiously caressed by.
He’d twitch, but that’d be all.
Which side would he be hanging? Wanda had read, sometime, somewhere, that statistically, more men ‘dressed left’ than right. So if she let her fingertips glide up inside the left leg of his baggy shorts, sliding over skin that was so glossy it felt slippery …
Oh my! It couldn’t be! Could it? It was. There was no mistaking the nature of the heavy limpness that lolled against the back of her hand. If his shorts had been just two inches shorter, the head of his cock would have peeked out beneath them. What a monster!
It twitched against her hand. The young man shuffled his feet a little further apart. What more invitation could Wanda ask for? She curled her fingers around his shaft, just above its head. Their tips didn’t touch. What would it feel like to have that monster invade her body? Would she be able to stretch that far?
The cock in her hand thickened and tried to lift. She grasped it firmly. It wouldn’t do to embarrass the lad by allowing his erection to jut out in front of him. But she couldn’t hold it down for him forever. There was only one thing she could do.
Her hand stroked, up, then down, slowly and firmly. Did he grunt? Men did, sometimes, when aroused.
The train hissed to a stop. Her new friend made no move to get out, thank goodness. Wanda pumped him again. Could she feel a pulse? He was certainly getting warmer. Better get on with it, just in case his stop was coming up. Wanda slithered her fingers up and down, sucking the sensations in through their tips. He was so big. He must have outweighed her better than two to one – maybe three to one – but she held him fast by the root of his power. Despite his bulging muscles, she was in control of him. The way she had him now, he’d give anything for her to continue doing what she was doing. When a man’s orgasm approaches, he’s nothing but a ravenous beast. That’s a woman’s power.
His cock was straining up, making it hard for her to hold him down. She pumped harder and faster and harder and –
Ah! There it came. She could feel the pulsing through his shaft.
It’d make a mess on the carriage’s floor, but no one would know what it was, if anyone even noticed. The train stopped again. Her ebony stallion moved away to get off.
Oops! It was her stop as well. Wanda scrambled for the doors and just made it. He was nowhere in sight. It was best that way. If their eyes were to meet, it’d be so embarrassing. Even if she’d only fantasised their encounter, shame would be red in her cheeks. Sometimes she wondered if people could tell her dark secret just by looking at her. That too sent thrills of shame through her.
Even so, she simply had to stop.
Chapter Two
The Taylor Building was two blocks north of the subway station. It was a lovely day. Wanda walked it. Therapy Associates was on the twentieth floor. The receptionist had Wanda fill out a long form, though what relevance her childhood diseases had to her current emotional problems was beyond her.
Dr Sullivan would doubtless be small and slim, with a goatee and a Swiss accent. He’d wear a black jacket and pinstriped pants. Perhaps he’d have a pocket watch that she’d be asked to look at while he twirled it until she was ‘under’ and a slave to his perverse will. Would he …?
‘Miss Wanda Mitty? Come on in, please.’
So, he had an English or a Boston accent, she could never tell them apart, and he was well over six foot, built like a going-to-seed ex-quarterback, in a check shirt and expensive jeans. Her imagination wasn’t always a hundred per cent right. The lack of a pocket watch was a bit of a disappointment though.
He sat in a big green leather chair and waved her to a smaller version of the same. His desk was a sheet of glass on spindly chrome legs. It wasn’t at all the sort of desk that a girl would want to be bent over to be buggered. No doubt it was strong enough, but it looked flimsy and the thin glass edges would be hell on her thighs.
There was a file in front of him. He had a file on her already?
He opened it. ‘I see that your mother made your appointment for you, Wanda. Was it against your wishes?’
‘No, not at all. I know that I need help.’
‘Pre-wedding jitters?’ he asked.
‘Does that seem trivial to you?’
‘Getting married is life-changing. Does having concerns about it seem trivial to you, Wanda?’
‘No.’
‘Then it doesn’t to me. Is there anything about your upcoming nuptials that worries you in particular?’
‘Um.’
He waited for her to say more and, when she didn’t, he asked, ‘Tell me about your young man, your fiancé.’
‘He’s big, about your height but not so …?”
‘Bulky as me?’
‘If you like. He’s very good looking, charming, fastidious …”
‘Financially?’
‘Very well off. There are no worries there. Oh – and he draws, I’ve been told, tho
ugh I haven’t seen his work yet.’
‘He sounds well rounded, then.’ He glanced down at his file. ‘Does the age difference bother you?’
‘Not at all – in fact, I like it that he’s a bit older. It gives me a feeling of security and it’s just a bit naughty, now that I think of it. I kind of like “naughty”.’
‘He seems just about perfect. So?’
‘Should I give you some background?’
‘Excellent idea.’ He picked up a pen.
‘It’s sort of an arranged marriage, but not exactly.’
Dr Sullivan nodded.
‘That doesn’t mean that I don’t love him.’
‘Of course not.’
‘You see, my mother got into genealogy. A lot of people are, what with the Internet making it so easy. There was something in our family history that’d always fascinated her.
‘Our ancestors were Puritans who settled in Oregon – mixed farming. They did OK, I guess, until the two brothers who’d inherited the farm, Henry and William, had a falling out over a servant girl.’
Dr Sullivan nodded as if he’d been expecting exactly that information.
‘One night, Henry took off with all the portable valuables, including the cash, and the girl. William searched for him, in vain. As it happened, Henry had only gone fifty or so miles, across the border into Nevada. He set himself up with the family money in the corn business and changed his name to Chandler. Not much imagination, you see.’
‘What’s your fiancé’s given name,’ the doctor asked.
‘Henry. Why?’
‘How’s his imagination?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I see. Go on.’
‘It seems that, as well as buying and selling corn, Henry cooked and distilled it. He made a lot of money, which he invested in land, at first. Later, in all sorts of good solid things, like banks and railroads. He became a pillar of the community, a church elder, all that kind of thing.’
‘And the other brother, William, your direct ancestor?’
‘He went broke. He tried publishing and was unsuccessful. For a time he was a travelling carpet salesman, failed at that, then got a job on the railroad, walking the line. William was industrious enough but a bit absent-minded. He got run down by a locomotive; but not until after he’d married and fathered two sons to continue the line.’
‘So one side of the family prospered while the other suffered?’
‘I wouldn’t say “suffered” but we were never wealthy.’
‘And then your mother found Henry’s mother, and they got together?’
‘And became mutually obsessed with healing the family rift, using me and Henry as the glue.’
‘Does he seem to resent that?’ the doctor asked.
‘He seems genuinely in love with me.’
‘Seems?’
‘Henry isn’t very demonstrative.’
‘Tell me more about him. What does he do?’
‘He sits on boards. He’s a lawyer but he doesn’t practise that. He’s on the committees of several charities, two churches, an orphanage, a private girls’ school, plus he administers the family trust and runs the family businesses.’
‘Very respectable, then.’
‘Very.’
‘Too respectable?’
How to answer that? Best say nothing.
Dr Sullivan prompted, ‘He’s ultra-respectable, and you?’
Fuck, he’d got right on it. Well, what would you expect from a shrink? She blurted, ‘I gave my virginity away when I was quite young.’
He nodded.
‘I have a healthy appetite, that way.’
‘I see. And you suspect that he doesn’t?’
‘There’s Puritan blood in the family.’
‘On both sides,’ he said. ‘The original Henry wasn’t so respectable, from what you’ve told me.’
‘My Henry wears dark three-piece suits.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘All the time? I bet he’s even got three-piece chalk-striped pyjamas.’
The doctor smiled at that. ‘You haven’t actually seen his pyjamas yet, then?’
‘No.’
‘The physical side of your relationship?’
‘Zero. A few kisses, but not real kisses. My mother warned me, when she took me to visit for the first time, “No bad language. No flirting. Don’t dress sexy. Be respectful and respectable.”’
‘But you haven’t always been so respectable, in the past?’
‘You better believe it, Doctor.’
‘You’re sexually experienced, then; adventurous even?’ He waited in vain for her to respond. ‘And you don’t want to give up the lifestyle you’ve learned to enjoy? I’m not judging you, Wanda.’
She nodded.
‘How are your concerns manifesting themselves? I take it that you haven’t complained to your mother that you see a less than exciting intimate life ahead of you?’
‘I have, actually. She’s no shrinking violet herself. She says I’ll just have to teach him how to please me.’
‘What do you think about that?’
‘Nervous. Unsure that’d work.’
Dr Sullivan tapped his chin with his pen. ‘And the immediate effect?’
‘I fantasise, Doctor.’
‘Sexual fantasies? About your fiancé?’
‘Sexual, yes: about Henry, no.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’
She blurted, ‘All the time. I forget things, miss appointments, don’t feel safe driving.’
‘Obsessive fantasies, then?’
‘Yes,’ Wanda admitted. ‘Obsessive.’
‘Then perhaps our first goal should be to bring your imagination under your control. If you control your fantasies, they can’t control you. You could establish boundaries.’
Wanda nodded. It was fascinating how he seemed to be shrinking fifty or so pounds and growing a small beard.
In a slightly Germanic accent, he asked her, ‘How about masturbation?’
‘Yes please.’
He got out of his chair and came around to where she sat. With his left arm resting on the back of her chair, he plucked her skirt up her thighs with his right hand and slid his fingers higher, to the gusset of her panties. It was eased aside. A satisfyingly thick finger worked up into her and started pumping. Would it be polite to offer him a handjob in return or was what he was doing simply a part of her treatment?
His voice, slightly raised and with that Boston accent again, said, ‘Wanda!’
‘Yes, Doctor?’ She blinked and he was back in his chair, back the way he had been.
Very quietly, he said, ‘You were drifting off into a fantasy, weren’t you?’
‘Sorry.’
‘No problem. Did you hear my advice?’
‘Advice?’
‘I asked you to keep a journal of your fantasies, totally uncensored, and bring it in with you the same time a week from now. Can you do that for me? Then we can discuss specifics.’
Yeah, and then he’d jerk off while he read them and he wouldn’t even let her watch. She said, ‘I can do that, Doctor. Thank you.’
A chime sounded.
‘That’s our time up, I’m afraid. Try to relax, Wanda. All will be well.’
On the subway ride home, Wanda still felt needy from the doctor’s interrupted attentions. She pulled her skirt up, her panties down, and touched herself to a nice little climax that was greeted by the other passengers with cheers, claps and stamping feet.
Chapter Three
Wanda woke on her back in her own comfortable bed with her sheet pulled up over her face. Or she assumed that she did. She hadn’t woken in someone else’s bed since she’d met Henry. Still, until she opened her eyes and pulled the sheet down she wouldn’t be absolutely certain she was in her own bed, would she? She might have had an accident that she didn’t remember because of retrograde amnesia – was there any other kind? You couldn’t very well forget your future
, could you?
Perhaps she’d been in a coma, but there didn’t seem to be any wires or tubes attached to her. Could they be trying something new on her? Wireless monitoring of some sort?
A pleasant baritone said, ‘And this is Wanda. She’s a very special patient. We are trying some new techniques on her, very hush-hush, somewhat controversial, so you don’t talk about her case outside this room.’
A variety of voices said, ‘We understand,’ ‘Of course, Doctor,’ ‘Mum’s the word,’ and things like that.
The first voice continued, ‘Note the tone of her muscles.’
Her sheet was folded down to Wanda’s waist, immodestly exposing her naked breasts. She kept her eyelids as slits so that she could see but they wouldn’t know that she could.
Someone said, ‘Excellent.’
Someone else sighed, ‘Lovely.’
Wanda resisted taking a deep breath.
‘Wanda is paralysed,’ the voice continued, ‘but she responds to touch and seems to be thinking. Under the Electrical Brain Scanner Device, the pleasure centres of her brain show activity if she is stroked: like this.’
A firm but very soft hand caressed her bare shoulder.
‘If the touch is more intimate, like this –’ he cupped and compressed her breast ‘– her brain lights up like a Christmas tree.’
‘A sexual response?’ someone asked.
‘Certainly. We are maintaining her muscle tone by frequent massage. That’s experimental, but more radical; we theorise that the continuing sexual stimulation will eventually bring her up out of her coma. She’s already responded with twitches and flexed muscles.’
A higher-pitched voice asked, ‘Is she still capable of achieving climax?’
‘So far, four times, for sure. Two more possibles.’
A second female voice asked, ‘What will our duties be, as interns, regarding this patient, Doctor?’
